


Holmes Family Reunion

by Not_An_Author_ButITry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 22:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5760481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_An_Author_ButITry/pseuds/Not_An_Author_ButITry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please tell me what you think so far! :-)))))</p></blockquote>





	1. Moriarty, Over Doses and a Rose for the Holmes boys.

It was truly a shame; Moriarty so liked Alvin, or was it Alex, maybe it was neither. Particularly after the so successful brain washing, he became so compliant as the face of Moriarty. He was quite good at selling the crazy... well maybe that was the brain washing too. 

It was unfortunate that Alan (maybe) had to shoot himself on that roof, particularly due to the fact that it only allowed for an uninhibited Sherlock to essentially destroy an entire branch of Moriarty's network. However, Moriarty had to acknowledge the fact that he was anything but bored with the youngest Holmes wreaking havoc. If anything he knew, with Sherlock feeling triumphant in so many ways it was surely time to crush him all over again. And Moriarty really preferred to keep him in London in order to do it. 

The phone rang, a sweet American voice on the other side spoke smoothly "Mr. Holmes, the younger is taking off as we speak."

"Why thank you my dear." Moriarty cooed. 

"Of course." The voice lifted slightly, intending it as a fair-well. 

Moriarty pressed a button on a small remote control, his former face coming to life on a television screen on the far side of the room. 

"Miss Rose." Moriarty sang before the voice on the other end had an opportunity to hang up. 

"Yes" she sang back, a hint of annoyance at the edges of the word - she clearly hadn't the time for him. 

But he couldn't bring himself to care about her time constraints, so he paused purposefully before speaking, just to add to her mild annoyance. "Why exactly is your boss helping be?"

The young woman let out a slight giggle, something almost flirtatious, "It suits his agenda to keep Sherlock Holmes in London, for the time being that it."

Moriarty smiled "He does know I intend for for this series of events to end in the death of the youngest Holmes boy."

"I wish you luck in that." The predatory smile from the woman blatantly rang across the phone call "You're success has been less then exemplary in the past."

Moriarty chuckled. "Give Sherrinford my regards."

"Good buy Mr. Moriarty." And with that the call ended with an audible click. 

Jim sighed with mild amusement, Miss Rose was more a Shark then a goldfish. Goldfish being the favored term of her boss in reference to a majority of humanity. And while The young woman was not the most evolved creature she had little problem keeping up with men like Moriarty - she was indeed a predator, her innocent veneer nothing more then a faux facade. 

Moriarty relaxed back in to the chair he had been occupying, looking across the opulent sitting room at the screen repeating a message to a nation - intended for the Holmes family alone. The room was filled with the giggles of a toddler playing on the lavash carpeting. Each of them bearing a striking resemblance to her biological father. 

The child being a particularly successful end to a pride inducing experiment of Jim's. 

**********

When the finally got Sherlock home from the hospital it was nearing five thirty in the morning, the sun just beginning to peak over the horizon. He had not only come down from his OD, but had crashed. He was a mass of noodle-like limbs and slurred half words. 

John refused to allow a pregnant Mary to assist Sherlock out of the cab. She did however open the doors for them and hold him up as John pulled his shoes off just inside the door. 

Mrs. Hudson was on them quickly, admonishments and praises flowing at once. She was under Sherlock's arm, opposite of John, helping to hoist him up the stairs as soon as John had pulled off his own shoes. Mary following behind them. Mrs. Hudson simply continued to talk, the trio (John, Mary, and a very out of it Sherlock) only barely registering her voice as a sound. Their day had been such a long one. 

John was bitter and not in the mood for any surprises, however that did little to stop one. Throwing the door open to the sitting room the Baker Street residents (and honorary residents) were met with an auburn haired young woman lounging in Sherlock's chair. She sat in it sideways, her legs crossed over the armrest nearest the door. 

Mrs. Hudson gasped in surprise. Sherlock became coherent enough in that moment to wretch himself out of the stabilizing grasp of Mrs. Hudson and John. 

"Why is there a" he pointed dramatically amidst a pause in his slurring. Clearly unable to get his next words out. "a" he slurred on "a that in MY chair!?" He stumbled forward. The hospital's sedative, an attempt to counteract the excess of uppers and allow the man to sleep off the pain he was surely in the midst of, was clearly beginning to affect Sherlock. 

The young woman swung her legs to the floor and stood in a single fluid motion. She wasn't particularly tall, but wore black heals that made her nearly looming. She was not particularly thin, nor was she large by any means; other then a well endowed set of breasts. She was clearly top heavy, a high waist and nice while not incredibly prominent hips and rear. 

Her dress was professional, a flattering cut in black, pearls around her neck and as earrings. "Hello Mr. Holmes." Her red lipped smile finally parting in to words - an American accent flowing from the young woman. 

"Who are you?" John lurched forward, placing hands of support on Sherlock. 

Her grin, cocky and predatory, widened "I work with your older brother Mr. Holmes. I have been sent to check up on you. To ensure that you have made it home safely."

"Tell Mycroft he can go..." Sherlock's slurring was cut off though. 

"I have also located any narcotics of consequence within this's dwelling and shall properly dispose of them." She gestured to a zipped evidence bag on the coffee table. 

Sherlock went to make an aborted lunge towards the woman - threats clearly bubbling beneath the surface. 

"Your brother also wished for me to inform you that he will be returning." The woman sighed "I am afraid, young Holmes, that sides will have to be chosen and decisions will need to be made - decisions that may not be best for your... Goldfish." She looked at Sherlock's companions with superiority abound. 

John looked at her oddly when she called him 'young'. She looked quite a bit younger then Sherlock, his train of thought was interrupted though as a voice piped up from behind him. 

"What on earth does Mycroft mean?" Mrs. Hudson squeaked. 

The woman let out a slight huff of a chuckle. 

"Get out!" Sherlock demanded with a wobble, both physical and vocal. 

"Perhaps it is best that you leave." John's voice an odd combination of agitation exhaustion and pity. 

She picked up the bag of drugs and began a swaggering glide out of the flat. The woman pushed past John and Sherlock only to stop at Mary, critically examining the pregnant woman for a moment. 

Mary looked the woman square in the eye, jaw set. "Can I help you." Mary stated, it wasn't even a question, and in a way only Mary was capable of - it wasn't even rude, or harsh. Just matter-of-fact and unamused. 

"You're... Not what I was expecting." The woman stated simply, polite - yet vicious - grin never faltering. 

And with that the woman was through the door and lightly clacking down the stairs. "See you soon Sherly!" She called back, only moments before the door clicked shut. 

With the woman's words Sherlock seemed to sober instantaneously. The curve in his spine straightened as he pulled away from John and he shakily sprinted down the stairs - throwing open the front door Sherlock looked around the street frantically. 

"Sherlock!" John called, bounding out on to the sidewalk where the detective was examining every direction his eyes could take in. "Sherlock!" John repeated, Mary and Mrs. Hudson at the door "What is it!? Who is she!?"

**********

Mycroft had been out of his office for the entire day, the country was a mess and there was an excess of work for him to do. The incident with Moriarty's face adorning the countries television screens was proving a test of Mycroft's serenity. What had really flustered him above most all else was the presses desire to deem this a result of some government conspiracy. Mycroft couldn't help but feel personally slighted by such accusations. 

Mycroft was truly and thoroughly looking forward to getting back to his office. 

He had his evening well planned out; two fingers of scotch as he finished a short stack of compulsory paperwork, and then he was going to head home, get in a work out (because he has been doing well at exercising every day thank-you-very-much) before an indulgently long shower. Another small glass of scotch would be downed and he would turn in early, because after the day he's had he deserves all of it. 

But then his stomach rumbled on his beeline to his office and he realized it had been two days of torture in which he has not eaten a thing. Mycroft let out a small sigh, before thinking *no, no I don't think I'll change my plans - everything is perfect for the rest of the day. I will just eat in the morning*

A small smile played across Mycroft's lips, it fell instantly when he opened the door to his office. A pair of black heals could be seen over the armrest - someone was lounging in his high-back chair. They were facing away from the door and towards the painting behind Mycroft's desk. 

"Who are you?" Mycroft asked evenly. 

The woman's American voice was sweet with an air of superiority "Oh Myc." Mycroft could practically hear the grin she was wearing. "How have you been?"

Mycroft was immediately on the defensive at the sound of the voice. He slammed his office door closed behind him. "What are you doing here?" Mycroft demanded. 

The woman hooked a black-heal-clad-foot on some protrusion from Mycroft's desk and spun the chair to face the man. 

She looked him over, eyes hooded in - was that desire? Mycroft internally laughed at the idea. He was no fool, he knew he was not blessed with any semblance of beauty. He was intelligent - the most intelligent person he knew - and that was sufficient. But this woman was looking at him as though she was prepared to strip down and have him where they were. 

"You know" she began, "your little brother ended up with the looks, but" she bit her red-painted bottom lip "there's something about a man with legitimate, governmentally recognized power." She giggled - something Mycroft had never found attractive, and yet... He found himself - what was this? Intrigued? Yes. Intrigued sounded correct. 

"Why are you here?" He tried a bit of a different question. 

The woman stood with limber grace, straightened her dress and turned to the glass bookcase in which she examined her reflection. She touched her face, clearly making a show of fixing her thin eyeliner, before reaching up to pull a pin out of her hair - allowing long curling auburn locks to fall from their neat French-twist. 

She strode around the desk, Mycroft was oddly transfixed - he had never seen her, only had kurt passing dialogues when he called to check up on Sherrinford. He had never anticipated such a hypnotic woman to be the owner of the innocent voice that so often delivered immensely rude remarks. 

Before Mycroft could process what was happening she had an arm around his neck while running a finger on the other hand down his chest. It was as though his usually lightning fast synapses were being drowned in molasses. Objectively, she was rather average looking, but somehow she had him hypnotized - she had a aura of inexplicable power-strength-intelligence even. 

"I have come to deliver a message from your older brother," she smiled, clearly aware of what she was doing to the middle Holmes boy. "Mycroft, he is back in London. It would be foolish of you to make any attempt at hindering Sherrinford Holmes business here."

The words began to bring Mycroft back to himself. He realized that at some point his hands had migrated to her hips and he immediately dropped them "Miss Rose. You may tell my elder brother that if he is truly back in London he will be prosecuted to the fullest extent if the law. He is not to be here."

Mycroft huffed, annoyed and a still trying to regain his full senses, before going on. "I have far too much to deal with, he needn't make my life any more complicated."

"Oh yes." She closed her eyes with a short nod of her head "This thing. The thing with Moriarty. You really need to keep Sherlock out of the way."

"And why exactly is that?" Mycroft huffed; after all the only reason Sherlock's banishment had been postponed was to stop Moriarty - of whoever was behind the reappearance of the villain. 

"You see, Sherrinford has some business with Mr. Moriarty." The young woman kissed the sensitive skin below Mycroft's right ear, a chill shooting down his spine - her wandering fingers grazing his right nipple. 

Rose was clearly quite proud of herself. 

"Does that. Does that mean he is indeed still alive?" Mycroft managed - fists clinched at his side. He refused to allow her the satisfaction of reciprocation, however he simply could not bring himself to push her away. 

"Mmmhh" she hummed in to another peck on his neck "he was never even on that roof."

That shocked Mycroft back to himself, he pushed her away "What!?"

She rolled her eyes, "That wasn't Moriarty."

Mycroft studied the young woman intently. He couldn't help but notice how perfect her lipstick had remained, if a touch faded, while she had been nuzzling at his neck. 

"Yet, Moriarty - the real Moriarty - still wishes to see your dear little brother dead." She took a few short steps to lean against the desk behind her. "My advice; give him something to do. Keep him busy with dead ends and other cases - make your government believe he is doing what he was brought back from the brink of exile to do, but keep him away from it. Protect your little brother like you always do." She looked out the window, allowing for a moment in which her words could sink in. "Don't become truly callous now, dear Mycroft."

She straightened herself upon pushing away from the desk, taking the few steps that would close the distance between them. "I have already paid him - Sherlock - a visit at your big brother's request. He is in need of protection - you can see it as well as I saw it. He is so fragile." She ran her hands up his chest and around his neck. "And you. Your so strong. You have to protect him." She pecked the corner of Mycroft's lips. "And, know that you have Sherrinford to help you - help you protect little Sherlock and he'll protect you. He still loves you Mycroft. And, with his help you have me as well."

Mycroft wanted to argue - argue about all of the emotional bull-shit that she was saying. Shit that she couldn't even truly believe as someone who worked so closely with his own older brother. 

"Also," (and Mycroft will remain fairly certain for all of eternity that she said this because she knew, somehow, that it was exactly what he needed to hear. A small thing that would alleviate a bit of his stress) "I took the liberty of locating and disposing of all of Sherlock's narcotics."

She flashed one more smile before planting a final kiss on Mycroft's jaw and sauntering out of his office. 

She left the door open, likely completely and totally on purpose. Mycroft was baffled by the strange looks he was receiving through his recently opened office door until the image if Miss Rose's slightly faded red lipstick flashed in his mind. 

*Shit* he cursed internally. He quickly closed his office door and proceeded to pull our a handkerchief to clean the red lip marks from his face. As he say at his desk rubbing at the lipstick Mycroft noticed that Miss Rose had left her hair-pin. He studied it a moment before sticking it in to his pocket - he'll give it back to her - or so he told himself.


	2. Where did these names even come from?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think so far! :-)))))

Sherlock had passed out in the midst if his frantic search for the strange woman in the street. His friends had lugged him up the stairs and to the couch, his bed simply being too far away. 

It was nearing four in the afternoon by the time he woke - the sun low in the sky. 221B was eerily silent; Mary dozing in John's chair and Mrs. Hudson had disappeared hours ago back in to her own apartment. John was fighting sleep on the floor in front of the couch. Sherlock has to be looked after - he had overdosed and that came with lasting consequences, heaven only knows what could happen to the detective. So John, ever the physician - ever the best of friends, sat uncomfortably on the floor in front of his sleeping best friend simply watching him breath. He maintained a constant hold on one of Sherlock's wrists, telling himself it was to monitor his pulse. 

Eventually John did doze off, still clinging to his best friend. It wasn't for very long though - a grunt followed by a confused "John?" Spelled the end of his little cat-nap. 

John awoke with a jerk, he knew he wasn't asleep for long - the sun had barely moved, yet a platter of fresh tea and biscuits had appeared on the coffee table behind him. 

"Um. John?" Sherlock looked a touch uncomfortably at him. 

John hummed in assent, too out of his senses at the moment to form words. 

"Why are you holding my hand?" 

"I most certainly am not!" John jumped away from the detective who was in the process of sitting up - it was a bit awkward, Sherlock's usual grace failing him. 

A giggle erupted from John's, clearly, no longer sleeping wife. 

John huffed "I was monitoring your pulse you over grow child!" Mildly amused defense had managed to turn in to spitting anger in a single sentence. "You know, because you tried to kill yourself with drugs!"

Mary was at John's side in a moment, hands sliding around one of his arms in a failed attempt at comfort. 

John simply marched on, voice rising with his temper "How can you justify yourself!? How can this be at all ok!? Any sane people would walk away Sherlock!" He breathed heavily. "You are a selfish bastard with no concept of reality! You think it's ok to hurt those around you! You think it's ok to treat those who love you the most as though they are insignificant! And damn it Sherlock, they" he paused, shaking with the frustration "I" his fury melting to shame "I keep coming back, you keep kicking me and I keep coming back." John scrubbed a hand over his face. "You know, Mycroft is as big of an idiot as I am because he's right here too. You keep doing horrible things and you keep drawing us back in." 

John was done with his diatribe for the time being. He pulled his arm from Mary and made for the door, blindly grouping for a coat on the rack as he pushed past Mrs. Hudson who had appeared at the door at some point. 

Mary walked around the coffee treble and sat next to a very out of sorts and mussed-up Sherlock. She sat so her right side was pressed close to his left, a comforting hand on his knee. Mary looked over at a still oddly silent Mrs. Hudson who was gaping at Sherlock. 

Mary finally took a moment to examine the detective, and he looked utterly broken. And was that... tears welling up in his eyes?

Mary instinctively warped her arms around him. Cradling Sherlock's head to her shoulder with one hand while the other began tracing soothing circles on his back. "Shhh." She soothed. "He'll be over it soon enough."

Somehow though, this time, Sherlock felt an odd gravitas to the injury he paid John. 

Not just John, really, but to Mary and Mrs. Hudson and even Mycroft - a bit, at least. 

**********

John slammed the door to 221B Baker Street behind him as he strode out in to the frigid evening air. He went to put the coat on only to realize that he had grabbed, and he groaned audibly at this, a long grey bell-staff. 

"Damn it!" John bellowed, "Damn it all!" 

He had truly become fed up with everyone in his life being- well - who they were. 

John threw the coat to the sidewalk like a child throwing a tantrum. He carded his fingers through his already mussed blond locks. He paced and contemplated going for a pint, but in the end he simply snatched the coat from the ground and climbed back up the stairs to 221B and flung open the door. 

**********

It had been nearly twenty minutes - about an average time for one if John's little tantrums. Mrs. Hudson had moved in to the kitchen and was shuffling about in there when they heard the door fling open down stairs. 

Sherlock had still been tucked in Mary's embrace - it wasn't exactly what he wanted, but it sufficed. The sound if the door had not only startled Mrs. Hudson in to a clatter, but had also caused Sherlock to leap from his place on the couch. 

Sherlock scrubbed his face viciously as John's heavy footfalls drew closer up the stairs. He hadn't been crying - no, that is the last thing he would ever do. Ever. 

John walked through the door, threw the coat on to the rack and made a beeline to his chair. The other three people in the room couldn't help but stare as the doctor plopped himself into the chair. 

"So," John began. 

Sherlock braced himself for another lecture, or at the vary least some emotional reverie from his companion. But it never came. 

John had surely wanted to deliver an epic speech, something that would truly get through to the gangly detective - but the idea was quickly abandoned. 

"Who was she?" John settled for. 

Sherlock let out a sound that was at once a question, relief and surprise. 

"Oh yes!" Mary was beginning to pour the clearly lukewarm tea. "That woman, who was she?"

They both looked at him expectantly as Mrs. Hudson picked up a pair of cups - one to John, the other to Sherlock, before sitting on the couch next to Mary who had her own cup in hand. 

Sherlock sighed internally, relieved at the abrupt return to the statues-quo. He ran his fingers through his messy curls and looked down at the tea in his hand with a bit of distain - it was cold, how unfortunate. Sherlock set it on the table as he made a show of turning to look out the window. He steepled his fingers a moment in contemplation - even though it was an unnecessary display, intended only for his audience. 

"She is an associate of my older brother." Sherlock stated as he spun back to face his company, making a mental note to turn more slowly until he has fully recovered. 

"Yes," John sighed impatiently, "we gathered. But what made you go after her the way you did?"

"No." Sherlock strode across the room. "Nog Mycroft. I" Sherlock held a hand to his chest "am the third son of the Holmes family. I fear that this young woman is employed by my eldest brother. Sherrinford Holmes."

John chuckled impulsively, the room suddenly captivated by him instead of Sherlock. "Where did your parents come up with these names?" John blurted. The ladies on the sofa dissolving into giggles. 

Sherlock fraught a smile, his - no, not his - John was back to, somewhat closer to, normal. "He is truly a genius. Unfortunately."

John's lingering amused grin grew slightly. "Someone, besides your self is 'a genius'?"

Sherlock ignored the quip. "He is the only person I believe could truly give Mycroft trouble, and he did. He challenged Mycroft in many ways and that is why Mycroft was forced to rid himself of our eldest brother."

The room was captivated by Sherlock's tail. 

"You see. Mycroft chose to exercise his mind through the accumulation of legitimate power. I utilize the criminal classes by solving their wrongs. However, Sherrinford Holmes sought to alleviate his boredom through a more direct interaction with characters of dubious moral constraint. He is a criminal unlike any other - he has never broken a single law. He does however maintain power and control over various criminal organizations through the manipulation of legitimate businesses. It is known that he is a master criminal, yet there is nothing to charge him with. He had grown too powerful by the time Mycroft took the office he now holds; a scheme had to be concocted in order to remove the eldest Holmes son from England." 

Sherlock fell in to his chair as though the tale had taken so much out of him "and now" Sherlock went on, "he is back."

The room was silent for a moment. 

"Whow-Whow-Whow." John held up his hands in a dramatic gesticulation. "You mean to tell me that, not only is there another one of your kind, but that he is so smart he is actually a bad-ass... Ok. No."

John simply looked at an unwavering Sherlock. 

"No." He repeated. "No. This - this is crazy..." John paused a moment, thinking back on his life since meeting Sherlock. "Which is not at all surprising." He melted back in to his chair with a resigned groan the thought *only god knows what this adventure has in store* floating around his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And sorry, I know this chapter is a lot shorter.

**Author's Note:**

> So. I hope you like it. 
> 
> I really liked the idea of an almost Anthea-like character for Sherrinford Holmes but less of a face and more of a brain. Like someone that he knows his brothers could, in some way, respect. Thus; Miss Rose. 
> 
> I really don't know how long this is going to be - I suppose it's just going to go on until it reaches an ending on its own.


End file.
